


The Cold-Hearted Thief

by TheAlfanator



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 14:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12913722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAlfanator/pseuds/TheAlfanator
Summary: This is a story I made in which Geralt of Rivia stumbles upon a contract he’d regret if he missed.  A story regarding a phantom; a “thief”, and it’s the Witcher’s job to eliminate it once and for all.





	1. The Witcher

**Author's Note:**

> This work of fanfiction is based off The Witcher. If you want a front row seat of my stories, you can check out my Tumblr here: https://thealfanator.tumblr.com/  
> This is where I post my work first, so if you're eager to read, you can source them there!  
> Please enjoy.

It was midday in Novigrad. Birds were dipping and diving in the lively air that smothered buildings and alleyways. Alehouses, inns and markets filled the otherwise empty wooden shacks. People were bustling about their day, bumping into others as they moved along like groups of ants. Amongst one of the inns was a Witcher. Geralt of Rivia, in fact. He was merely drinking his mead. Taking a break from all the usual killing; he needed it. Everything seemed calm at first. The mead tasting and bursting flavour on the insides of his mouth, bands equipped with various instruments danced in the background, and cheers and talks commenced around him. Strangely enough, Geralt found comfort in the proceedings of the surroundings. However, he noticed a disruption. A distortion happening amongst various people around the bartending area. They looked like thieves; almost completely covered in the sharp metal of their blades. After they had disappeared, Geralt asked the man serving drink about the ruckus that has crept up.

“It ain’t nothing” the man said, trying to hide his fear. The shaking in his voice was not subtle. After some persuasion, Geralt managed to get the guy to talk.

“There’s this contract. Dangerous, it is. Man named Stefan not too far from here wants it taking care of. The fact that it hasn’t been dealt with has stirred locals.” After thanking the man and paying for his drink, Geralt decided to head off in the given direction. He didn’t know whether to be thrilled or annoyed. He wanted to take a leisurely break from the whole thing, but Witchers never shy away from some more coin in their pockets.

 

After meeting up with Stefan, he was exposed to the situation. Geralt was given a parcel of some sort. He tugged at the ends and opened the contract. The letter itself seemed clean and untouched like no one had dared gone near the item itself. The parchment roughly pulled at his fingertips as he read it. The contract read:

_To anyone who dares accept my calling:_  
There’s a monster on Island Frologhe, not too far from here. It’s… not human. Last time I saw it, I moved across sea to Novigrad with my wife and children. It still haunts me. As close friends of mine are still inhabited on the island, I am willing to pay a hefty sum of cash to whoever may take out that bellowing beast. Be warned, it haunts at night but is non-existent by day. It is large, has spindly features and was ghostly black. So much so that it seems to camouflage in with the scenery. As eager as I was to see it, my mind would blank it out; tell me there’s nothing there! ‘Twas a hot piece of cold nightmare that scolded my every waking thought. Please, take of it. Head to the port and find a boat. Travel to that damned island and take the beast out. Also, if you happen to see cousin Alisha, tell her I’m fine – and that I’m living here, the east of Novigrad.  
\- Stefan. 

Geralt swiftly tucked the paper into his right pocket. He knew his objective. He felt unsettled, however; he hadn’t heard of anything like this before. Curiosity flooded his mind more than anything.

Geralt headed in the direction of the nearest herbalist. He’d needed to stock up on various potions and blade oils for the journey to Frologhe. He also knew that the trek across sea was no cheap matter. After purchasing the required items, Ergot seeds, Arenaria and the sort, Geralt headed to the port. Stefan said he should look for the short man with the long beard. Geralt used his Witcher senses to identify his next move. After some time, he found the dwarf he was looking for.

“I’m looking to go to travel to Frologhe.” The Witcher introduced.

“Aye.” the dwarf replied, “and why might you be going there?”

After an unusual amount of explanation, the short man agreed to make the journey. He said he was going there anyway to complete some errands of his own. The dwarf, who Geralt later found was a man named “Dewey”, gestured him to his cabin. Geralt’s heavy boots crunched the decking as he moved along the ship’s exterior. The wooden planks seemed to scream and moan back, creaking loudly as he traversed the area. As Geralt finally reached his temporary guest room, he settled down on the shallow, worn-down bed that sat in the corner of the room. The room wasn’t exactly luxury, yet again – Witchers don’t care for luxury. It was small and only equipped with a few cupboards and spare clothes. There was also a bucket in the darkest corner. Geralt lie down, and slowly let the rocking of the room and rustling of the ocean sea send him to sleep.

“Get up!” Dewey roared. Geralt was abruptly awoken to the thumps on his door. “We’re almost at the place.” Geralt rubbed his orange-hinted eyes and stumbled his way outside. The sea air immediately struck him. He often wished that his senses weren’t so powerful! As Geralt finally came to, he noticed seamen working hard; tinkering with various metal parts and ropes which were connected to all parts of the ship. They seemed so lively and cheerful, as if they’ve been up for hours already.

 

“Here we are.” Dewey interrupted, “Frologhe.” Geralt looked into the distance. The island drew near. It seemed that the closer they came to the island, the thicker the mist seemed to emulsify the air. It suddenly became colder like a phantom possessed the vicinity. Frologhe was officially known as “The Lonely Isle.” In due time, Geralt would see for himself: the mysteries that filled Frologhe, and the monster that was only known as “The Cold-Hearted Thief.”


	2. The Daughter

The shore was almost in sight. The sand skittled along the shoreline as the tide coated them without mercy. The trees that were scattered on Frologhe waved welcome to the arriving ship. It almost seemed ironic that, at first glance, the island seemed passive. It was hard to believe there was an ominous being – acting like a black hole towards the poor, helpless inhabitants settled there. Geralt stood at the edge of the ship, calm and tranquil. He was steadily breathing in and out the sea air as it tugged his face as it went past. His inhales and exhales were strangely rhythmic; mechanical. In… two… three… Out… two… three… It was clear that Geralt was preparing himself for the arrival.

Geralt was abruptly awoken by port bells that called out as Dewey’s ship drew increasingly near. Shouts of fishermen and others drew closer like panic and excitement merged into one. The Witcher gathered his personal items; readying himself for the departure. He also thought about his trusty horse, Roach. Unfortunately, because of the sea travel, Geralt was not able to bring him along. No matter, he thought. He needed a break anyway. A few minutes passed and the ship and the port touched wood to wood. They had arrived. Geralt swiftly made his way off board – no time to waste.

“Geralt,” Dewey called out, stopping him in his tracks, “I’m heading off now. I have some business of my own to take care of. I should be finished in about a week’s time. I’m travelling to a settlement a few miles west from here. Head along the coast. If you need a way back to Novigrad when you’re finished, you know where to find me.”

“Very well,” Geralt noted. Dewey departed. Geralt could see him rushing around, talking to what seemed like every single person in the area. He was certain he would encounter the dwarf again. For the time being, the Witcher continued with the assigned contract. Geralt made his way along a gravel path leading deep into the woodlands of Frologhe. The mazes and pathways, sea air and hills reminded him of Skellige, the island in which one of his oldest and dearest friends, Crach an Craite stood in power. Geralt made his way, with difficulty up the hilly areas of the island. Oxygen became harder to come by, but a Witcher’s mutations made it so that little effort was needed to adapt to the environment. According to Stefan, Geralt was looking for a village called Hankala. Apparently, this village was having the most trouble with “The Cold-Hearted Thief”, and so to find the most out of the situation, Geralt should interrogate and investigate.

 

Eventually, after some time as a consequence of not being equipped with his trusty steed, Geralt arrived at Hankala. As he entered the village, Geralt sensed isolation. Nobody was immediately visible like they were too frightened leave their houses. They settled in solitude. At short notice, Geralt realised that the interfering hostility was no small matter. Geralt knocked on various wooden doors randomly in order to gain some hopeful response. After two attempts, A woman answered one door. With a shaky voice, she greeted Geralt.

“What d’you want?” She whispered. Geralt noticed that she was tired, like she hadn’t slept for days. Geralt explained that he was here to help eliminate presence of the unknown entity.

“I was sent by Stefan.” He declared. Her eyes lit up immediately like lanterns in a dark corridor. Geralt realised that this must’ve been Alisha, the contractor’s cousin.

“It haunts us every night. Every night – without fail. We cannot prevent it and we cannot evade from it.” She explained. She began pleading for Geralt to help the situation. “The bartender, at the inn, lost his daughter to it. Heard nothing since.” With new information, Geralt announced Alisha farewell and swiftly headed towards the inn. As he entered, he expected to see candlelit areas, roaring fires, smells of mead and ale, people chattering away, but there was none. There was a vivid vacuum in the air that isolated all areas of the room, which made Geralt’s ears ring with such scarcity of liveliness. At the end of the room however, there was a man. He seemed deep in thought, whispering to himself like a madman. Geralt approached. As the man heard footsteps, he woke the atmosphere by abruptly shouting “Go away!” The White Wolf decided whether to continue. A few seconds passed.

“I’m a Witcher. I’m here to help.” The man struggled to lift his head like a heavy weight had been attached to it. Geralt noticed his moist, tired eyes from severe exhaustion. He grabbed this opportunity like it was his last hope.

“I’m Deryk. My daughter…” he trailed off; in thought once again, “was only five years of age. That thing. That monster took her from me and I can’t get her back!” He vented his frustration on nearby furniture. Stools cracked, pans crashed, glasses smashed. 

Geralt, with caution, took a step back to give the man some space. “I’ve tried everything.”

 

Geralt consoled the man for a while. The room correlated with the man’s evident depressive state. Dreary, cold, still. Geralt helped the man by turning on a few lamps and a fire; to keep him company. As a final gesture, he also reassured Deryk that he will find answers to his daughter’s disappearance. Just as Geralt was leaving, the bartender gifted him with one final plead.  
“Please… There’s a site; an incident. It’s the only place I haven’t checked which may still have a trace of her.” Geralt turned to face him, “Turn right as you leave, up the path until you see the large rock. Then strafe left for a few hundred metres. I saw it – that monster. I managed to retreat, a rare occurrence. It might help you find her…”

Geralt followed the man’s directions. By the time he arrived, it was night. The cold, static air felt isolating. Strange, Geralt had had lots of experience with exploration around unusual environments. He’d been doing it for years! Somehow, this felt different. The air felt hostile, like tiny daggers stabbing every exposed area of his skin. He pushed on. Using his Witcher senses, he observed the ‘crime scene’ for any traces or clues about the thief’s appearance. There was almost none. This was definitely trickier than he imagined. There were no signs of blood, no signs of ripped clothes. He checked every inch of the ground… nothing. He checked trees and branches… nothing. He had gathered that the fiend preferred a method of abduction rather than straight-up murdering – evident in the lack of blood. After what seemed like hours searching, Geralt picked up a trace of scorch marks which were present in small circles around a particular area on the ground like ink blots. Unfortunately, the marks were localised and had no trace for him to pursue. Additionally, the Witcher found a note nailed to a tree however it wasn’t written in a language he recognised. It contained gibberish. The question was who would leave an unknown letter nailed to a tree for anyone to view, if no one could view it? Geralt took the item nevertheless. After he was certain he had gathered all of the evidence in the area, he began to head back to the village.


	3. The Source

As Geralt was making his way back to Hankala, the atmosphere seemed to shift. Only slightly, but to his keen Witcher senses he could sense the tiniest of differences. The mist became so thick that he couldn’t see even a few metres ahead of him. Blinded. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Geralt drew his silver sword in safe measure. Moments passed. The White Wolf turned violently and rapidly, keeping on guard. At first, he was dancing with the fog, back and forth. Back and forth. More moments passed. The air became thin and extremely unusual. The whole scenario became… colder. Then, he spotted it. Out of the corner of his eye. A strange black mass emerged from the cloud, quite leisurely. Strange noises in a foreign language became embedded in Geralt’s mind. He immediately knew that this method was the creature’s distraction technique; psychological effects. Geralt tried to block out the sensory invasions and instead tried to focus on the black figure in the distance. However, no matter how hard he tried, they dug in, creeping, settled behind the enemy lines. Unable to shift and destroy. It wasn’t until seconds later that he realised that he had dropped his sword and was clawing at his own head. The beast had also crept further towards him. It was less than a metre from the Witcher, yet he could not see it. Blocked out of his head – just like Stefan described. Untouchable. Invisible. Geralt tried to use his Witcher spells to delay or distract the ominous presence. Aard… nothing. Igni… nothing. It felt like decades had passed by now, yet Geralt’s subconscious recognised that only seconds had occurred. He fell to the ground and tried to retreat. All energy simmered and evaporated; lost from his body. All muscles were numbing. The Cold-Hearted Thief descended with him, blinding all his vision with its huge nothing. As a last resort, Geralt tried to cast one more spell, in desperate hope that something may happen; anything. It was clear though that nothing could stop this unexpected threat from invasion. He was too unprepared…

 

Cold. Geralt felt the cold against his cheek. The rock and grit sheltered his vision. A few slow blinks made them scatter. Thick dust clogging his lungs making it hard to breath. He felt energy gently reappear into his muscles. He tried his hardest to push himself up from the uneven earthy ground that currently supported his limp weight. His muscles creaked and wobbled like they were going to snap like fragile bits of splinter. As he steadily came into consciousness, he tried to breathe more calmly and rhythmic like. However, his body blurted out coughs of rejection. Was this even air? The horrific stench that owned the place was so abominable. Geralt rubbed his face as he stood up. Blurred vision finally merged into one. Darkness. Darkness so dark, even the devil would not see it. Geralt came to the conclusion that he had been recklessly dumped at the bottom of a cave. The only light that was visible was the tiny spot of light far in the distance – which silently glowed like a speckle in a pot of glitter. Shit. The Witcher recollected his thoughts. Whatever the Thief was, it was powerful. As ironic as the title suggests, The Thief had not taken any of his equipment. His swords still perched. Potions still remained. Brain still intact. Why would the beast move him to a confined space only to not remove or detain him of anything? Geralt presumed that he would soon find out.

He struggled to clamber his way out of this grave-like structure. He felt like he was drowning in all the soot and dust that was disturbed by the sudden movements and gestures that he made. He made his way towards the light one step at a time. Sometime later, he came to a point in the cave which proved difficult to climb. Regarding his weight, it was more than likely he would dislodge some rock and risk falling. He looked down. The bottom wasn’t visible. Small rocks fell to prove it, wailing tiny screams as they rapidly descended. Geralt sighed. This was risky, but he felt there was no other choice to be made. He clung to the nearest piece that stuck out of the wall. He only put weight on the ones he dared to. More rocks fell to the abyss that loomed. He continued. If Geralt had to guess, he was maybe less than fifty metres until the top. Until liberty. The glow at the top laughed at his incompetence, the singular pin prick of the light dancing on his face mocking him. He laid his foot on another step. Then another. Slowly making progress, Geralt maintained his soothing nature and level-headed intellect. In… two… three… Out… two… Shit. Geralt’s foot slipped. Clashes of the ledge which was once comfortably holding his weight echoed – another helpless prisoner, consumed by the Cold Heart’s grasp. Adrenaline kicked in for Geralt. His entire control that he had on the vertical cliff was slipping. He was so close now. One more stretch! He reached for the tree root that glistened in the sunlight…

In normal circumstances, Geralt would be pleased to feel the sun radiate onto his skin. Instead however, it blistered his face and withered his senses. Wincing in pain, Geralt was unsure whether it was because he had been in the dark for such a long period of time or whether it was of the own phantom’s cause. He had no passage of time – how long had he been unconscious down there? Geralt took a long deep breath of the crisp island sea air. Hankala was west from here… Wherever ‘here’ was, he thought in doubt.

He reached the village. Finally. He visited Deryk. On the verge of passing out, The White Wolf tried to export the information he had learned but struggled. He dug his way for oxygen. When he did try to speak, they would rapidly slur into a “hold on, I need to breathe” attitude. After Geralt had fully recovered, he unveiled his cryptic discoveries: the scorch marks, the lack of blood or evidence of death, the encrypted letter.

“I will keep searching,” he promised. For now, though, he requested a room at the inn for the night. He was seeking desperately for rest. Out of sheer kindness, Deryk lent him the room for free – as reward for the evidence he had gathered. Geralt thanked him.

Geralt was gifted with relief when he rested on the comforting bed that sat in the slightly melancholy room. He was just glad he was gifted with sleep. He slowly closed his eyes. Composure, at last.

 

The White Wolf drifted into tranquillity. Although he didn’t wake, the Witcher felt pain in a part of his unconsciousness. It was acid that had accurately spilled into his thoughts. Evaporating thoughts, disappearing in a blink of an eye. The Cold-Hearted Thief loomed. Everything felt… darkened. Clawing at the edge of his consciousness, darkness tore it away bit by bit. Geralt drifted deeper into an unescapable nightmare…

“Come on! Get up, you lazy Bastard.” Eskel tugged at his shoulder. Geralt awoke from his sleep and looked around him.

“Awake, Geralt – we have work to do.” Yennefer expressed. He was at Kaer Morhen. Geralt swiftly rose from his place. Yep. Definitely Kaer Morhen. He mindlessly followed them upstairs towards another part of the castle.


	4. The Nightmare

“So, how’s it been up north here in Kaer Morhen?” Geralt asked curiously.

“Same as usual, these days. Winter’s been cold – we’ve struggled.” Yennefer explained. They were heading into a large, open room filled with an ambient atmosphere and noticeable echoes. The flames of torches danced in the darkness like a spot of milk in black coffee. Heavy footsteps filled the emptiness as Yennefer, Eskel, Lambert and Geralt entered. The Grand Hall.

“Geralt, why don’t you go down to the food hall with Lambert? You haven’t eaten in ages.” He reluctantly agreed. They both headed through various winding pathways to get to their destination. As Geralt headed down the narrow, streamlined corridors, he touched the ancient stone that occupied the castle’s walls and structures; a merciless cold that knifed his fingertips like tiny ninjas that lined up obediently in rows. They reached another room which was decorated and padded with multiple tools and furniture. There were racks of weaponry that lined the left wall like soldiers ready for war, followed by a door which led to the garden of Kaer Morhen. The swords winked sparks from time to time, shining in pristine condition. The two Witchers made their way to the buffet. Juicy vegetables and flawless bits of meat lie on the table gloriously, dressed up as if they were to be viewed rather than eaten. Lambert began to pluck items and dumped them onto his plate to be recklessly devoured in a surprisingly short amount of time. Geralt held back cautiously.

“It feels like years since I last ate.” Lambert explained. He started to run on lines for hours – talking more than eating. After a while, he forgot Geralt was in the room with him. He turned to quench his curiosity… Geralt stood there, almost lifeless. Lambert became aware at his strange posture. As he looked closer, he realised that the White Wolf’s eyes had because a solid black – absorbing all light. Lambert’s breaths shortened and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Geralt shook, his body limp. “Geralt?” he questioned, hoping for a response. Geralt’s voice became distorted. Lambert wasn’t even sure if it was Geralt anymore. The voice became gravely and barren; cold. Geralt drew his sword and started swinging at Lambert; thoughtless and out-of-control behaviour. It was as if something had possessed him with severity. Lambert deflected his blows as immediate defence, then fled back through the maze of the castle – locking the bolts and hatches to delay the soulless villain from catching up to him. He heard clashes from the rooms he was in only a few seconds ago. Adrenaline boosted Lambert further.

 

Yennefer and Eskel were interrupted by the dashing of Lambert. He tried to explain to them what had happened over his heavy breathing from running.

“I feared that this would happen…” Yennefer elucidated. “Follow me.” She led the way, whilst the other two Witchers pursued. They carefully headed towards the library, watching around corners for the threat that followed. They questioned Yen what they were planning to do, but she kept things quite vague. As they entered, Yennefer started frantically searching through pages and pages of books. The library was large and deep with boring tomes. The Witchers would’ve preferred to justify history with a sword, not a pen. The lengthy amount of time that she took researching filled them with dread. The unknown confusion about Geralt’s demeanour took an unnerving twist in the matter. After dead silence, they heard pounding knocks on the dense wooden door at the far end of the library. Hard forces smashed the silence and challenged the locks and hinges. It found them.

“We have to move!” Lambert identified.

“I’ll hold the door…” Eskel started, but no resistive force was strong enough – Geralt burst through the aperture and grabbed Eskel by the throat. The other two stood, unable to move – glued by the fear. Geralt’s lifeless body penetrated Eskel’s stomach with strong forces, ripping the innards and burning them to ash – his eyes had the essence drained out of him as his body uncontrollably fastened to the floor. He became still.

 

The remaining two, Yen and Lambert darted across corners of bookshelves, trying to escape the wrath of the White Wolf. Lambert tugged at a shelf which was weighed down with books. It fell with force and prevented the pursuing Witcher from keeping on their tail. Ironically, the books were now being used for physical protection. Knowledge now really does mean power! Both hearts raced as they swiftly headed down the infrastructure of Kaer Morhen, with a monstrous entity mindlessly following.

“We need to get to the astronomy tower.” Yennefer shakily expressed. “There’s a shortcut through the cellar.” Lambert agreed, looking over his shoulder frequently to fulfil the doubt he had, nagging in his mind. They descended down stairs into the confined spaces of the cellar. Walls, ale barrels and the significant lack of light blurred and block their vision, decreasing their awareness and perception. Down into the blackout they went; they could hear their own fast heartbeat as their anxiety crept up within them. The only noise they could hear was the dripping of nearby splashes of water. Dripping and dropping far in the distance. Each one ten times slower than the beats in their throats. Sometime later, Yennefer turned to view Lambert.

“Up here,” she indicated as she reached the stairs. Moments passed. A sudden screech was heard in the darkness, but before Lambert had enough time to react, his entire body had gone limp and senses had gone numb. It seemed the demon had consumed him. Yennefer watched in terror as The White Wolf slid his sword calmly around Lambert’s throat in a single movement, and dropped the corpse with no deviations. Yen witnessed Geralt’s raw unfeeling smile saw through her panic. She retreated desperately up the spiral staircase – which should’ve lead to the astronomy laboratory. Geralt walked in binary, no emotion shining through the strides that narrowly chased her. Hours seemed to pass as the steps became increasingly difficult to climb. The stairwells winded like the inside of a clock, ticking mechanically, without soul or thought.

Yennefer and Geralt reached the top. They faced each other.

“Stop!” Yennefer exclaimed. Geralt obeyed. They stood symmetrically on the other sides of the spherical room. Equally in the centre, there was a vibrant pedestal which she glared at. Geralt also saw the significance and he adapted to her movements and strafes – ready to combat any unexpected fluctuations which may have appeared. The important looking structures glared down at the two as they stood – psychologically battling each other – emphasising their preposterous superiority.

 

“I know you’re not… you, but you need to listen to me, Geralt.” His head twitched. “You need to wake up.” She continued to persist. Silence. It was as if they parried each other’s thoughts – staying neutral, with no one with a visible advantage. The Witcher seemed to mirror her movements. Then, she dived for it. Both reached for the pedestal in the middle. Blank static choked the room – ringing overwhelmed the area. Nothing.

Geralt awoke from the terror. His head burned like acid consumed it. He woke up in the inn bed sweating from the dream he had almost witnessed. His distress filled his body and it took seconds to fully recover. He looked around the room. Back in reality, finally, he thought. However, his heart skipped a beat when he smelled a burning sensation. He was confused as he couldn’t see any fire in the inn he was currently in. After he heard the blood-curdling screams coming from outside the thin walls and thatched roof, he came towards realisation. In a rising panic, he burst through the door into the freezing night air. The town of Hankala was on fire.


	5. The Fire

Hankala roared and spurred and spit the retching flames at the land beside it. The fumes of fury disturbed everyone in the nearby vicinity. Geralt watched in shock, fear paralyzing him to the spot while he tried to analyse the situation before recklessly acting in a somewhat naïve way. The townspeople were afraid – screaming, wailing, yelling, calling for loved ones. They wanted to run but didn’t want to leave their home. 

“Geralt!” someone called in the smoke layered distance. Geralt’s disorientation of his cat-like senses distorted his recognition of the people around him. He recognised the voice that shouted for his name, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it… Dewey!

“Get ya’ ass up and runnin’, Witcher!” he screamed, imperatively. The dwarf rushed hurriedly towards a burning house nearest to him. Geralt immediately rushed into action. Using his Witcher senses, he desperately tried to identify if there were people stuck inside any of the buildings. There. A small child, stuck inside a recently alight caring home. He rushed to the door. Unfortunately, he tried to budge the door but it had been blocked by a fallen wooden plank on the other side.

“I’m gonna get you out!” Geralt consoled. He made his way around the building to a window. He gazed inside the building to see where the boy was. It was cloudy with smoke - Geralt was blinded. Without caring to use his Witcher spells, he smashed the window in desperation. Shit. He covered his bleeding knuckles. He’d have to be quick. Carefully crouching to avoid the hot air from infesting his lungs like sprawling cockroaches, Geralt made his way towards the trapped and vulnerable kid. Coughing and splattering, the boy was found.

“Come with me,” he led. The boy held the Witcher’s hand in a timid but thankful way. He was scared, and begged for his mother. Geralt pried with the wooden bar that blocked the door. One… Two… Three… The heavy annoyance absorbed all of his energy, and almost mocked his attempt. After a few, precious seconds, however, Geralt was able to push the object into a blazing fire a few inches from his right foot. Finally, gasping for breath, Geralt smashed his foot into the wooden door. “Come on” he growled softly. His vision seemed to be fading. It wasn’t until the hinges came away from the door and then buckled underneath the force that he realised that the boy had fallen unconscious. The White Wolf dragged him as efficiently as possible out the destroyed wreckage. One last tug…

 

The screams of a lost mother burst the tragic area of Hankala. When she found her son being escorted by a Witcher, she bellowed in panic. Rushes followed. Geralt lie the boy on the cold ground. The boy’s mother dropped to her knees to aid him. Geralt started ordering Dewey’s men: “Help me!” or “Get this fire out!” Moments passed. Seconds that felt like decades. Multiple people now huddled around the little boy. Geralt slowly retreated; heart in his throat. Come on... more decades were spent… One… Two… Three… Geralt’s eyes widened with fascination. He started breathing – small panicked bubbles of forgiveness. Frequent cheers flooded emotions; mixed emotions of anxiety and relief battled each mind. What had started this mess? The Cold-Hearted Thief. Geralt sighed. He had let the people of Frologhe down. Deryk approached behind him. His shy, almost non-existent footsteps alerted him.

“You let us down.” He coldly presented to the table in a gravely, aggressive voice. Geralt, in shame, asked what had happened to him. “You were asleep in that bloody inn for 3 days! I tried and tried to wake you and you failed. You let us all down!” He crashed down on Geralt like sharp boulders down a steep hill. Geralt felt aggression at whatever malevolent force cursed him.

“I’m sorry.” He emitted with his dry, steel tone. He wished he could express more, but his emotions were stripped from him long ago at Kaer Morhen. Deryk continued to mock him.

“Why did I think you could help us?” he stormed off, half in anger, half in sorrow, pity and longing hope that his daughter would return. Geralt sighed. As the commotion in the village continued, Geralt proceeded to feel the burning sensation that wretched in his head like the day after alcohol. Like an angry boar, the White Wolf broke off into an aggressive stride towards a burned building. He came to a small bench which looked like it had not been touched by the destruction. As Geralt rested, he pondered on how the monstrosity managed to pacify him for that amount of time. More importantly, how he did not wake at the devastations that it caused several times before… Shit. His head lie in his blood-stained hands, hopeless at his incompetence to save the inhabitants of Frologhe. He had one job. He had failed. It took a few moments and lots of wrecked pieces of furniture before Geralt to finally come to a conclusion. He needed to stop the Cold-Hearted Thief as fast of possible. It had to be tonight.

“Need any help?” a voice rung beside him. Geralt’s eyes did not stir from the mud-riddled ground, but he knew exactly who it was. Her voice struck ominously at his senses, stealing all thought or reason. He gasped. It really was her. That iconic American accent didn’t fool Geralt so easily… Triss Merigold. “I heard you had some trouble. Looks like you definitely had some trouble.” Geralt smiled – in contrast to the situation of the ruins of Hankala. He swiftly questioned her sudden arrival as memories flooded in…

 

“Word-of-mouth, silly!” she made fun of Geralt, who was clueless to how Triss managed to track him down.  
“All the way from the other side of Novigrad?” Geralt chuckled, “I don’t believe you.” Both of them continued to recollect their journeys on the beach that presented the ports of Novigrad from the Isle of Frologhe. They sat on the melancholy sand and dirt but it did not phase them. They had to be cautious that none of the inhabitants of Hankala saw them like this; they would take the situation the wrong way after their sudden depressive states. Emotions were wild after such a horrific event like this after all. Moments passed. They came to the resolution and reason why the Witcher was here in the first place.

“What is it like? The Thief thing I mean?” Triss asked.

“I…” Geralt stumbled on his words like hurdles plotted on a pathway, “I don’t know.” Geralt released a big sigh. He was pondering whether he thought the creature had defeated his motivation. It seemed impregnable which caused him to shake with frustration.  
Anger drowned his rational thoughts. Deryk’s daughter, the cave, the failure to help the fires of the village. It all led back to him. Triss’ hand warmed Geralt’s shoulder.

“We can do this. That’s why I’m here to help, remember?” Geralt lifted the weight that hefted his eyelid. His grumble let out a swift agreement. He stood up with effort, ignoring his muscles spams at the sudden movement, and followed Triss with determination. He wasn’t going to let one more failure be the final straw that broke the camel’s back.

 

As they headed back into the depths of Frologhe, Geralt asked Triss how exactly she found him. In a large town such as Novigrad, Geralt thought he was untraceable.

“It really was quite a tale…”


	6. The Cold-Hearted Thief

Footsteps moved the small, hopeless pebbles on Novigrad’s cobblestone ground. They clocked the cracks that led down a dark alleyway and echoed across the brick red walls like tiny little screams of warning. As they slowly faded from view of the busy public, the clashes of metal Nilfgaardian armour filled the narrow walkway in which they led. They moved like clockwork; not a move out of line – not by a millisecond. One. Two. Three. They continued to progress. Their spears clunked on the cold alley path every other step, warning near people to steer clear. The menacing movements of the soldiers encouraged them to lock their rustic doors. Double checking, and shushing their relatives. The Nilfgaard sun which was present on their armour gleamed even in the severe darkness. The symbol waltzed with them with a sense of cocky superiority over the other peasants. They reached a clearing. Bustles of people swiftly became cowers of miniscule ants which avoided their path. The soldiers continued with faces of stone; without failing to continue with their task. No faults, no fluctuations. They knew exactly what to do. One. Two. Three. Their footsteps echoed. One. Two. Three… they readied their weapons. One... Two… Three…

Triss Merigold was wondering through the Novigrad streets, half gazing at the nearby stalls of fresh foods and desires, half eager to reach her house on the corner of the town square. Her hood protected her from recognition, harshly rejecting the curious eyes that followed her. Her footsteps seemed non-existent even though their frequency increased due to a rising paranoia. More eyes glared as she stumbled over the cobblestones, rushed in eager panic as she reached an arch. Not too long now. As she broke into a casual jog, screams could be heard in the near distance. She held still – fixated. Her will to remove herself from the crowds became diminished as a new terror alerted the hairs on the back of the neck. She heard feet scramble for safety as he turned the corner. Citizens crawled and ran away from the city centre like two equal ends of a magnet, expeditiously repelling the situation. Triss was almost caught up in the frantic atmosphere. Some darted into houses, others ran for eternity until they could see no more the soldiers that took their pride ominously across the street. Triss saw the Nilfgaards only a few metres from her current position. They became more visible as the area became less populated. Only mere inches separated them from a poor gnarled old woman cackled in her own blood, twisting her own barren corpse helplessly as she ascended from life. The sorceress watched in horror, taking minute steps away in hope she could hide from this monstrosity. Promptly, however the leader of the group of men noticed her. He realised that her face was scrawled on parchment all over the city walls. The ghost that everybody saw. The assassin in the darkness that everybody knew. The speckle in a crowd that everybody avoided. The man smiled in pride and in gesture.  
“That’s her, the witch!” he cried. He notified the rest of the heartless clockworks that huddled behind him. The clangs of chains stepped over the old corpse that swam on the flooring, their strides breaking into gallops. Triss cursed to herself, darting in the opposite direction. She ran into the darkness of the alleyways, desperate for an assistance from any of the doorways. They all peered down in rejection. She cried for help as they chased her down. The large distance between them diminished swiftly. Merigold launched herself further into the mazes of Novigrad.

 

Geralt and Triss marched up the hill, crunching at every opportunity. They were headed back to Hankala hoping to meet an herbalist. They planned to buy blade oils and potions to aid against the Cold-Hearted Thief. Their journey was mostly silent with the exception of tiny snippets made by Triss about her previous encounters in Novigrad. As they headed up the hill, they huffed and puffed at the difficulty. It seemed more like a mountain climb than a walk across half the island.

“What happens after you finish this contract?” Triss asked.

“Nothing,” replied the White Wolf, “We say goodbye and I’ll head back to Novigrad.” Triss was unsure whether he was determined or frustrated. They continued along the gravel path. The air was still and passive, tugging like children at their hair. It was nice to have some tranquillity for a change, Geralt thought. But it was like the calm before the storm – which replaced his current thoughts with ones of dread. As the village came into sight, Geralt needed to rest his body and catch his breath. The two of them took a seat beneath a nearby oak tree. Geralt took off his sword holsters to give his back relief for a while. They lie there, breathing heavily like angry tigers. Triss looked into the distance, watching the townspeople of Hankala go about fixing the terrible mess that the Thief had caused.

“Have you ever thought about why it does it?” She inquired. “The Thief I mean.” Geralt absorbed the curious silence. Strange. Geralt had a sudden realisation. He started to delve into a theory that the creature never killed. Even back at the crime scene in which Deryk’s daughter had disappeared. There wasn’t a spot of blood.

“But it burned down the village,” Triss brought up. Geralt continued to think.

“Maybe it was trying to send a message. It wasn’t killing directly; rather, to get people’s attention…” Geralt had missed it. That one spot of information he had reconstructed gave him a spark of thought. “Perhaps the Thief isn’t as Cold-Hearted as we might think.”

 

Triss managed to camouflage herself inside a busy inn. Drunkards roamed about the place like zombies did a great job at keeping her hidden from the angry Nilfgaards that entered a few moments after. She kept her head down. The guards angrily slammed his hand on the bar, asking the bartender whether a fire orange haired witch had entered. After various communications of frustration that lured in the air, they were turned away disappointed. They left without much thought to continue their search elsewhere. Triss released a large sigh of relief. She took a few moments to decide her plan of action. She knew that every Nilfgaard had had word that a sorceress was roaming the area, so she had to stay out of immediate sight. Fairly contrastingly, the atmosphere of the inn she was present in danced expressively without a care in the world. She felt like she was the only one carrying the hefty weight of worries in her hands, drowning under the accusations and giggles that surrounded her. She could almost sense the people shouting – telling her she looked like a petrified cat. As she darted her way to the back exit, she dumped a small coin purse to the bartender as a way of thanking him. She kept her head down.

“Woah, wait up!” The man called. “Are you missus Merigold?” Without turning, she nodded her head. He asked her about her business here in Novigrad. It took a handful of refused attempts to pry it out of her. “Trust me, I can help.”

“I’m seeking Geralt of Rivia; The White Wolf.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “Here.” He gestured in for a whisper to her ear. He explained that he directed him to a contractor named Stefan only a few days ago. Triss carefully received this information. Those few moments of explaining were precious to her. She smiled and cautiously gave the man a few more coins, then left. Triss had been looking for the man for a while, missing throughout all the Earth without a trace or any way of contact. A small spark of hope lit like eager fires that flickered in her warmed heart. She headed through narrow streets that widened as she walked; as if they were welcoming her to lead the way. Finally, things were going her way…

 

Geralt transferred gold for blade oils and potions. After he was satisfied with the purchase, he made his way back to Triss. Her bright, vivid fire red hair stood out like the rising sun on a crisp, clear morning. He immediately spotted her. He halted, hesitant for a moment as he watched her in thought. She had her back turned and was looking into the stale landscape that surrounded Frologhe. The Witcher wondered what was going on in her head. Was she concerned? Afraid? He couldn’t tell but her positive and determined posture and mood concerned him – as if she was putting it on for his pleasure; a flirtatious burden… Geralt forced himself to snap out of statue and headed over to her.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” She said carefully as he arrived. Her voice was soft and comforting but Geralt suspected it was because she was wandering down the distant hills that she gazed at peacefully, without a care in the world; like she was half tucked away inside the depths of her imagination. Geralt didn’t like to interrupt her meditative stages – he adored that about her. He combated the favour and agreed to the suggestion as he also stared upon the sunset. A few seconds after, Triss stared into Geralt’s eyes. He noticed her small smile in the corner of her mouth. “The calm before the storm,” she chuckled. As much as she hated to admit it, Triss Merigold almost certainly loved the danger the White Wolf brings her on their many adventures. The sunset separated them but they were closer than ever. No words could break the deafening silence of the moment, with exception to the small blur of frustrated murmurs that occupied the village surrounding them. The few glorious minutes they had spent silently communicating on the horizon evaporated all troubles – even if it was just for a glimpse…

 

Later, they shared deep breaths and nervous collisions as they decided to head towards the Thief’s last known location: The area in which Deryk’s daughter went missing and Geralt failed to triumph over the creature. But now they were prepared. Geralt obtained company with the clatter of his swords whilst Triss had satchels of ingredients and fighting bombs and strange contraptions which only a sorceress would know what they did inside them. They crunched over the hills and rocky paths recklessly as they made their way to the infamous gladiator arena. This was it, they thought. Now or never… As they reached the area, Geralt received the usual feedbacks: Coated mist, isolating air and merciless muddy marshes. Geralt drew his sword slowly, the steel sang in high pitch as it was released from its holster. Triss released her fire from her palms which reflected in her eyes to reveal a strong-willed and tenacious character who was ready and willing to do anything to protect the people from any more harm. The phantom-like creature emerged from the thick sludge cloud and mist which briefly obscured their vision, but this time they were prepared. Triss aggressively threw a wild bomb which allowed Geralt to cast his Witcher spells, immediately gaining an advantage over the hostility. He placed Yrden over the floor that occupied the entity that strategically pounced around it, slowing it down. As the Thief recklessly swung at Triss, Geralt used his heavy sword to take a stab at the now distracted beast. Instead of carelessly merging through the abyss of the enemy, the weapon twanged satisfyingly off its body to uncover a large, demonising scream of pain which emitted like thousands of waves, blinding the Witcher. He covered his ears in protection to the blasts. Meanwhile, Triss punctured the bellowing beast with more fireballs – engrossing the energy into the soulless enemy. Screaming in agony, the Thief diminished in size, almost frightful and begging to stop their offenses. It crawled to the floor as Geralt and Triss mercilessly towered over it. One more stab with The White Wolf’s sword finished the enemy, cries commencing and a black release of pressure flooded the cage of mist in which they were present. Screams stabbed them with vicious intent as the pair scrunched their faces in hope it would assist against the twisted sounds. Thankfully, it only last a few seconds to which they were now presented with a feeble, shy man taking the place at the tip of the sword; bleeding profusely. He tried to speak, but was weak. Geralt leaned in close.

“I’m sorry.” He splattered. Geralt, with shock, desperately asked questions before he faded forever.

“Tell us about Deryk’s daughter? Why did you attack the village?” the questions were endless.

“I was latched in the middle of the night. Transformed. ‘Twas horrible. Felt like I was being smothered around my body; coated in thick sludge. Afterwards, I was like that – that thing. I tried communicating, I swear! But anything I wrote merged into gibberish, and anyone I approached cowered in fear. I tried to send signs.” He continued, speaking rapidly; fighting the battle between words spoken and breaths caught. “The daughter… Yes” his eyes flickered. “I saw her wandering in the woods one evening. Tried to help, but with the state I was in: she ran away. I followed naïvely until she slipped down to the bottom of the chasm. She didn’t make it…” he trailed off, converting his speech into tears. “I’m so sorry.” He sobbed. More intense moments passed. Geralt couldn’t decide whether the man should feel ashamed at his actions or to be felt sympathy at the entire endeavour. He drifted off slowly, embracing death. Geralt and Triss stood up, pondering over recent events. If Geralt had known…

 

They headed back to the village. Geralt greeted Deryk to tell him the heart-wrenching news. Triss stood back, observing the prickly tears consume the poor man. She had to turn her back and walk away for the final time. Geralt returned. Deryk sobbed at the loss of his precious daughter, whilst others were relieved of the disappearance of the spirit. Unfortunately, Deryk was still angry at the Wolf, and thus did not say a word – only to shyly retreat into the Inn. Various “Thank you”s were scattered amongst their departure, along with a heavy coin pouch strung on Geralt’s belt, jingling with his movements.

“Aye, Geralt. All sorted?” Dewey called. Geralt agreed with concentrated pathos. On the way to the ship, Geralt surprisingly met Stefan coming towards him. A swift ‘thank you’ and conversion of another, lighter coin pouch met their farewell. Triss and Geralt boarded the ship, floorboards screamed; correlating with the dampened, depressive mood of the Witcher and Sorceress.

“Tragic story…” Triss mumbled.

“I try not to get involved in emotional tragedy. Not because I can’t, but because it causes too many issues. Crying clouds the mind. Learnt that lesson too many times.” Geralt coldly admitted. The ship rocked itself towards Novigrad, and away from the Isle of Frologhe for the final time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this series, The Cold-Hearted Thief. Remember, you can visit my Tumblr page, https://thealfanator.tumblr.com/ , where you can check out some of my other pieces of fanfiction, as well as here, A03, where they are uploaded too. However, I upload work first to Tumblr, so it's definitely the place to go if you want to read more!
> 
> If you want to leave me feedback, please go to my Tumblr and message me. I don't know how to use AO3 very well, so it's more likely that I'll respond there.  
> Have a good day :)


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